Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Asset follows Handler-Rogers into the med-bay, and he blinks at how open and light the place is. He is used to the yellow, dingy lighting of the Vault but…he has a feeling that they won’t be returning there any time soon, now that he had let the Helicarriers be destroyed.

He buries a wince at the thought and carefully follows his handler to the bed in the corner, the other members of his handler’s team spreading out behind him as they get checked out after the mission.

My handler’s mission, he reminds himself, because he hadn’t disobeyed orders. He had been following his handler’s orders when he had let Iron Man destroy the Helicarriers. He hadn’t been disobeying.

He swallows and stands at attention as his handler pulls the privacy curtain of the bed. He hopes that his handler also thinks that he had complied properly with his orders. He had said to stand down. He had.

His handler glances at him as he moves to set his mask down on the bedside cabinet, and he waves at him to sit on the hospital bed. The Asset complies cautiously. Usually he either stands for his reports or sits in his chair, but he doesn’t see a chair here, and his handler doesn’t seem to mind him sitting on the soft mattress.

“Mission Report,” he orders, and the Asset relaxes at the familiar routine. He states his report evenly, and his handler doesn’t seem upset that the Helicarriers are destroyed. Instead, he asks for his damage report, which the Asset can thankfully report as none.

His handler pauses for a second after that, before flicking his eyes over him and squaring his shoulders. “Prepare for changes in protocol,” he says, and the Asset’s spine straightens as he nods.

“Confirmed,” he replies, his hands pressing down on the mattress as his programming lights up at the familiar words.

His handler breathes in and nods. “Avengers Tower, now considered home base of operation,” he says, which makes sense, since going back to the Vault would likely be unadvisable. His handler raises his chin and continues. “Cryofreeze and wiping protocols, suspended indefinitely.” The Asset stills, his hands tightening under him as he fights against widening his eyes in surprise.

Why…why would— He— He needs those, doesn’t he? Why would—? He needs those, or else he malfunctions on his missions. Why would his handler suspend them?

He stares at his handler, wishing he would explain. He doesn’t, only shifting his stance a little and continuing. “Current mission,” he says, and the Asset latches onto the words, hoping they will help makes sense of everything. “Live in Avengers Tower.”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand at all, and a small seed of panic swells in his chest because he doesn’t know how to do this mission, and he wants to. He wants to be obedient. But it is hard sometimes without his wiping and cryofreeze protocols, and now his handler is suspending them…

He will try. Of course he will try, but as his handler continues to outline the residents of the Tower, and then has its computer scan him, the Asset can’t help thinking that this mission will be one of his hardest.

One of the Avengers—Stark, approaches his handler, and he can hear them discussing his care, his handler using his word for him, the one that he has only ever heard a few times before; Bucky. His ears perk up at the word, and he wonders absentmindedly if that is to be his new title here, in this new base. 

All thoughts of his title go flying out the window when his handler stops speaking to Stark mid-sentence. His words cut off as he sways, and the Asset’s heart leaps into his throat as Stark darts forward to catch him.

It becomes clear that his handler needs to rest, and as such, the Asset expects to be led to his cell, where perhaps he can use up some of the three hours of sleep his handler allows him. The stress from the day had been draining, even though he hadn’t really fought anyone, or done much work on this mission.

His handler doesn’t lead him to his cell though. Instead he leads him to a room. “This is my room,” he says as they stop in front of a door. “You can stay here for now.”

Oh.

Oh.

The Asset’s breath stutters, and he swallows. Something acidic pools in his stomach as his shoulders stiffen, sweat prickling on the back of his neck. He…he hadn’t been expecting this. Not here.

His handler flicks his eyes over him as though gauging his reaction, and the Asset is careful not to meet his gaze, his mind turning over his words. He is not supposed to stay in his handler’s rooms. He is not supposed to unless— He sucks in a small breath and tries to keep his breathing even.

Maybe…this is part of my new mission, he thinks to himself, his heart pounding as he follows his handler through the door. The entryway leads to a small hallway, and as Handler-Rogers guides him down, the Asset catches sight of a kitchen, before they finally stop in a living room. He flicks his eyes over the furniture, noting the couch that sits facing the TV and a bank of windows, and the two doors on the left and right that lead elsewhere.

“You can go anywhere in these rooms freely,” his handler says as he leads him past the couch to show him the bathroom. “And you can use anything in them without permission.” The sour feeling in the Asset’s gut grows, its potency amplified because— because he hadn’t been expecting this from this handler.

This handler had been a good handler.

He rebels from the thought almost instantly.

He is still good, he reminds himself sharply, breathing in. Of course he is. And if this…if this is how he wants to use the Asset then…then it must be part of the mission. He has no right to question it.

He tries to remind himself of that as his handler disappears into his room and returns with a bundle of his clothes for him to wear. The Asset stands at attention and swallows at the sight, his throat dry as his handler sets them down on the couch next to him.

“I’m going to take a nap,” his handler tells him. “You…” he trails off and the Asset’s stomach rolls. He can’t stop himself as he ducks his head, his breath thin in his chest as he tries to keep his mind blank. If he doesn’t think, then he won’t react, and he isn’t supposed to react, because he isn’t supposed to resist his protocols—

“Sleep here if you want to,” his handler continues, motioning towards the couch. The Asset remains carefully frozen as he speaks. “If you require a shower, JARVIS can show you how to operate the one in the bathroom.” He reaches down to pat the pile of clothes. “Change into these clothes,” he says, and the Asset just barely avoids closing his eyes in resignation at the order. “Leave your uniform and weapons in a pile over there.”

He points to a corner by the TV, and the Asset swallows again, nodding. “Confirmed,” he manages, staring firmly at his handler’s shoulder, his hands clasped tight behind his back.

At his words, his handler turns to head for his room, and once inside, he leaves his door half-open. The Asset stares at it for a minute, and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

Even so, his movements are deathly silent as he turns towards the pile of his handler’s clothes. He grits his teeth, but he reaches for the top item anyways. He doesn’t want them. He doesn’t, but he had been ordered to put them on, so he does, slipping into them quickly and setting his old uniform and weapons in the corner his handler had indicated.

He leaves his boots off.

The clothes are…if he didn’t know what they mean, then they would be nice. They are soft, and looser than his uniform, and his handler had even given him socks and underwear... But…everything belongs to his handler.

He sucks in a breath and turns to look towards his handler’s door. The palm of his right hand is clammy and sticky against his metal one as he clasps them behind his back and stands at attention. He lifts his chin to look at the half-open door, and he waits.

And he waits.

His handler doesn’t call him in.

He resists the urge to shift anxiously and thinks back to his handler’s last words. He had ordered him to change into the clothes, and…he had said that he could sleep and take a shower. His tongue presses into the roof of his mouth and he clenches his teeth. How many favours is he expected to rack up?

His throat flexes and he squares his shoulders. His hands tighten further behind his back. He won’t. His handler hadn’t ordered him to sleep or take a shower, so he won’t. And he won’t go in until he calls him.

He is not disobeying. He isn’t.

He tries to stay convinced of that fact as time stretches on, and still his handler doesn’t call him in. His heart pounds uncomfortably fast as he waits. His jaw aches with how tight he clenches it, and he has to breathe very carefully in order to keep his breaths even.

As it is, he almost jumps when his handler’s door is finally pushed open again, the man himself stepping out. He expects him to look angry for making him wait so long… but instead his handler looks tired, like— like he really had been taking a nap. The Asset stares at him.

His handler flicks his eyes over him, and he doesn’t say anything about the clothes. “I’m going to make supper,” he announces, running a hand through his hair. “You can come if you want.”

The Asset swallows as he watches him head off towards the kitchen, and he can’t decide if he should follow him or not. So far, he hasn’t taken any of the extra privileges, and his handler hasn’t said anything either way. Is…is he testing him? Does he want him to do it or not?

He jerks, and his train of thought cuts off as a deep whining groan erupts from the kitchen. His heart begins to pound faster at the unfamiliar sound, sweat prickling on his scalp. A shudder runs through his body—fear for his handler suddenly sharp and poignant in his brain—and he finds himself deciding that maybe taking a few privileges would be a good compromise for his dilemma. His mind hardly settles on the decision before he sets off towards the kitchen, his heart migrating to his throat.

His handler has his back towards him when he arrives, and the Asset stands bewilderedly between the counter and the wall, trying to figure out what the sound could have been, and if it is dangerous. His handler turns, and he actually seems surprised to see him for a second, and soon the Asset finds himself inexplicably being taught the purpose and function of a blender, the apparent the source of the noise.

His handler really is making supper, which seems to consist of soup and a ‘smoothie’, and his handler turns to set the counter next to the Asset once the food is ready. “We’ll eat here,” he tells him, and the Asset realises with a sudden surge of horror that his handler is setting the table for two.

His breath stutters, but he tries to cover it up as he walks over on numb legs and sits down. His hands shake under the counter, and he darts his eyes up in a subtle, desperate scan of the kitchen, searching in vain for his usual powdered rations.

His right hand rubs against the soft fabric of his pants—his handler’s clothes—and he bows his head. Maybe he should have expected this. He probably shouldn’t be surprised, but he— but— but this handler had been so good.

Handler-Rogers sets the pot of soup down on the counter and places a glass full of the smoothie in front of each of them, giving the Asset a hesitant smile as he sits down. The soup smells amazing, and the Asset bites the inside of his cheek as his handler begins to portion it out for the two of them.

He waits until his handler takes the first bite, and his stomach gives a lurch of nausea as he reaches for his own spoon, wondering idly how much this will cost. After his first bite, he gives up calculating. The soup is better than anything he can ever remember tasting, better than anything the other handlers had ever given him.

He wills his hand not to shake as it reaches for his glass, and the smoothie tastes just as good, cold, and smooth and sweet, unlike anything he has ever tried before. He swallows back a wave of nausea and takes another determined sip. If he is going to eat it…if he is going to eat it, then he might as well enjoy it.

He manages to finish the soup…and then his handler ladles him out some more. The Asset presses his hands to his knees, his head bowing as he determinedly ignores the growing pressure behind his eyes. He knows he needs more, under the layers of nausea, he knows he hasn’t had enough food yet, but— but it’s just so good and he hates it.

He breathes in carefully and he doesn’t meet his handler’s eyes as he reaches for his spoon, making his way through the bowl and keeping it down by sheer force of will.

His handler refills it two more times.

He expects the soup and its consequences to be brought up after supper, but instead his handler gets up and begins to tidy away the dishes. “Why don’t you dry the dishes while I wash?” he says as he begins to fill the sink. “I’ll show you where things go.”

And he does. His handler remains calm throughout the whole process as the Asset works on drying the dishes and putting them away. And he shouldn’t be surprised about that, because his handler is good, but—

His stomach clenches and he focuses very hard on drying the last bowl. Maybe, he thinks a little desperately, maybe this will also count towards it. Maybe drying is all he has to do to deserve the supper. That wouldn’t be— that wouldn’t be that hard. He could do that.

After dishes, he follows his handler back into the living room and stands at attention, trying to swallow down his unease. He…wishes he wasn't in this room. He wishes he had a cell to go back to.

In front of him, his handler glances up to the ceiling. “JARVIS, is there extra bedding we can use somewhere?”

JARVIS confirms there is, and the Asset very carefully does not think about what they will need it for. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed in front of him and focuses on keeping his supper from making a reappearance.

He can’t keep his jaw from clenching as his handler turns back to him though. “Did you take a shower?” he asks, and the Asset’s breath catches. His vision blurs in panic as his hands tighten to an almost bruising force behind his back.

Had he misinterpreted his handler’s instructions? Had the shower been an order after all? His breath goes shallow, and he swallows, his head dizzy with nausea and stress.

“Negative,” he manages to choke out, ducking his head as he tries not to think of the consequences here for disobeying. They don’t have the wiping or cryofreeze protocols here, so that can only mean—

“That’s okay.” His head darts up, and he catches sight of a flicker of concern on his handler’s face before it gets replaced with something more neutral. “Do you know how?”

The Asset opens his mouth, and his stomach gives another lurch of unease, his skin crawling. He knows his handler’s bathroom is vastly different from the one he is used to, and it had been a long time since he has had to use anything like it but… “Affirmative.” He still remembers how.

A look of surprise flies across his handler’s face, but he smiles. “Alright then,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Well, I was going to take one, and then you can have it.”

The Asset manages to keep his face neutral at his words, and he nods quietly as his handler edges away, leaving him alone. The Asset lets his head drop as the door to the bathroom clicks shut, and he squeezes his eyes closed as he works on keeping his breathing even and calm.

It’s not like this is the first time, he thinks sharply at himself. It’s just part of the mission. I have nothing to be upset about.

It’s just…it’s just he hadn’t been expecting it with this handler. This handler…he had never even looked at him like— He had never expected him to—

He sucks in a deep breath and raises his chin, setting his shoulders deliberately. It’s fine, he thinks at himself. It’s fine.

His handler does indeed hand off the bathroom to him once he is finished, and he doesn’t even give him a knowing look as he exits, even though by this point the Asset knows that he has been racking up favours left and right.

His hands tremble as he reaches to turn on the shower, his stomach swimming unpleasantly. He steps in, and he refuses to use hot water. He hadn’t been ordered to, so he won’t. Maybe that— maybe that will help a little bit with…later.

He swallows and shakes his head, trying not to think about it. He knows it’s coming, and he knows he can’t avoid it, and he knows that he shouldn’t be this upset about it, because of course his handler knows best, and he should be grateful that he is even allowed—

                —to sit, with hard floor on his knees, and rough hands in his hair and—

He gags, his stomach rolling, forcing him to stop and breathe carefully for several seconds to avoid vomiting. He sways, and his nails dig into his palms, as if that will somehow help keep him together. The cold water of the shower raises goosebumps on his skin, and he shivers, feeling miserable.

His jaw loosens once the dizzy spell is over, and he stays panting for a few moments, recovering. He squeezes his eyes shut, before breathing in and washing quickly, not willing to risk taking too long on top of everything else. He uses as little product as he dares, and soon he is stepping out on to the mat to dry himself, moving mechanically as he slips back into the clothes his handler had given him.

His hand shakes and he shivers as he runs it through his hair, but he grits his teeth and steps out into the living room. His handler is waiting for him, sitting on the couch next to the extra bedding he had asked for. He looks up as the Asset comes out, his appraising gaze making his stomach churn.

“Do you need a brush?”

The Asset tenses at the question and his hands reach up to clasp behind him again. Does he need a brush? Probably. Does he want one? …Does his handler want him to want one? Is he supposed to ask for it now?

Please, don’t make me ask for it, he pleads internally, and in front of him, his handler’s lips press together, causing dread to pool in his already upset stomach. He expects a reprimand, he expects his handler to get tired of this slow game he seems to be playing, but instead, all he does is step past him into the bathroom and come back out clutching a brush.

“You can use this,” he says evenly as he holds it out, something almost— almost gentle in his eyes. “Do you know how?”   

The Asset stares at it for a second, before glancing up at his handler’s face, and then dropping his eyes back down again. “Affirmative,” he says, very quietly, reaching for it.

His handler steps away into his room while he brushes his hair. The stands are wet and cold against his neck, making his shirt collar damp. Once he is finished, the Asset stands still, staring down at the brush. I guess I don’t really have a choice about the favours, he thinks forlornly.

Not that he ever really had before.

But this handler— this handler had been good—

He looks up as his handler returns from his room, dressed now in looser, softer looking clothes. His eyes scan him, and something passes over his face that the Asset can’t quite read, but all he says is, “You can put that back in the bathroom.”

Of course, he probably should have thought of that, but right now the Asset finds that he isn’t willing to risk overstepping anywhere. Not until…not until he finds out exactly what kind of handler this one will be.

His handler is standing by the couch and bedding when he comes out of the bathroom again, and the Asset approaches cautiously. His heart flutters anxiously in his chest as he waits with his hands clasped behind his back, his breath far too tight to be comfortable.

“You will sleep here for now,” his handler orders, gesturing towards the couch. The Asset blinks, unable to decide if it is a good thing or a bad thing. “I’ll show you how to make up the bed.” Handler-Rogers bends down to unfold the bedding. “In the morning you can fold it up and put it by the wall until nighttime.”

His stomach drops and he stares at the pile of bedding, realising fully what it is. The bedding is for him. A sheet and a pillow and a blanket. His eyes grow hot, and he ducks his head, unable to keep his hands from trembling behind his back as he sucks in a breath. Is his handler going to keep giving him things until he—?

He takes in an unsteady breath and blinks his eyes clear, stepping closer to watch as his handler demonstrates how to fold the sheet into the couch cushions. His voice is calm and methodical as he makes up the bed, but the Asset finds his eyes flicking over the man himself, his stomach sitting tight and hollow in his gut.

Maybe…maybe it would be better to just get it over with. He doesn't know when— His handler hasn’t spoken about it yet, but he knows he will, because he has already given him so much, and, wouldn’t it be better to do it now, rather than wait to be woken up later for it?

He swallows, and he doesn’t think he can stand waiting for it to happen. He will throw up for sure if he has to wait in limbo for much longer—and he knows from past experience that that just makes everything worse. Plus, maybe his handler is testing him on the protocol so— so it would be better to act on it soon.

His handler takes a step back from the makeshift bed, and the Asset makes his decision. His chest constricts as he sucks in one final breath and takes a step forward, his socked feet moving softly on the carpet below.

At least it’s carpet, he thinks numbly as his handler looks up and the Asset drops his eyes, completely silent as he sinks smoothly to his knees.

His stomach seems to be doing its best to crawl backwards out of his spine, but the Asset ignores it. His mind rapidly shifts into a careful blank space as he reaches up for the top of his handler’s pants. It is easier not to think for this part, he can zone out for this part and then—

His eyes blink back into focus as hands grab his own with a jerk.

He pauses and his eyes flick up to look at his handler’s face, the man suddenly pale and wide-eyed. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he stares frozen at him, seemingly speechless. His next words come out with a wobble. “Bucky…what are you doing?”

The Asset stares up at him uncomprehendingly, the word—the title—echoing in his brain.

He doesn’t…know what to do with this situation. Is his handler upset with him because he was supposed to wait for an order? Is— is he supposed to do it differently? He…he hadn’t been sure. Usually his handlers mention something about it to clue him in, but Handler-Rogers hadn’t, and he hadn’t wanted to wait for it any longer because he never would have gotten any peace otherwise— But why is his handler looking at him like that?

His handler looks like he has seen a ghost. But he doesn’t look upset. Well—he doesn’t look upset with him at least. Instead he looks lost, almost devastated, and he stumbles like his knees are giving out, before sitting heavily on the couch, the Asset’s hands still in his.

His eyes close and he takes in a deep breath, his throat flexing as he cycles air in and out of his nose. The Asset tenses, flicking his eyes over him frantically, his heartrate increasing as he tries to figure out what is going on, and whether or not he has done anything wrong.

After a minute, his handler opens his eyes again, and looks down at him. “Okay,” his voice is just on the edge of even. He breathes in again. “Okay, it’s okay, I’m not mad at you.” His lips press together and his jaw flexes as he swallows. “Can you tell me what you were trying to do?”

The Asset can’t stop staring at him, trying to figure him out. Surely he must— he must have— He had given him all the things. He drops his gaze to his hands, currently still clasped in his handler’s lap, and his eyes zone out again. “The Asset must express gratitude for the things he receives,” he recites dully.

Handler-Rogers’ hands tighten on his, but not to the point of pain. And they tremble. At first, the Asset thinks that it is his hands that are doing the shaking, but after a moment he realises it is actually his handler’s. He is stunned at the realisation, and his handler clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says roughly. His eyes squeeze shut, and then he opens them again. “I think I get the picture of…how…you were supposed to…express gratitude.” The Asset’s shoulders hunch a little, but his handler continues, his voice sounding strained as he talks. “What…sort of things is the Asset supposed to be…grateful…for receiving?”

The Asset’s eyes drop to the floor and he swallows uneasily. “The things he doesn’t deserve,” he replies softly.

His handler’s hands flex on his, but loosen before they can hurt. “What things? Please,” he says, and the Asset can’t place his tone of voice. He sounds…he sounds achingly sad.

Which doesn’t make sense, but the Asset will spell out the answer to his question if he has to. “Handler things,” he says quietly, his eyes still on the floor, his hair falling down to frame his view. “Handler food, handler privileges, handler luxuries.” He swallows. “The Asset must return the kindness given.”

In front of him, his handler sucks in a breath, his hands shaking again on the Asset’s as he glances around the room. “Food, clothes, and a bed,” he says, a sharpness entering his voice. “That’s what they—” He cuts himself off as the Asset tenses, and he breathes in several times, calming down a little.

“Bucky,” he says finally, and the Asset glances up at him, his gaze sliding down to his jaw. “Have you…” His tongue works around in his mouth and his lips purse. “Have any of the agents or handlers from the Vault…activated this…protocol before?”

The Asset blinks and tries to think back. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember having to follow this protocol in the Vault. The agents there hadn’t really offered him anything. He had had his cell, and his uniform, and his rations in the Vault, and nobody had tried to give him anything to be grateful for. (Pierce had scared him a few times, by offering him milk, but it had never been an order, and the Asset had never taken it, and Pierce had never done anything else.)

His eyes raise to his handler and for the first time he wonders if this handler…hadn’t been trained in this protocol at all. If none of the other agents at the Vault used it then maybe…

“Negative,” he replies, and his handler’s eyes shutter closed, his face softening as he relaxes.

“Okay,” he breathes, something like relief entering his voice. His chin drops as he shifts to mumble to himself. “Not exactly a high bar but…” He shakes his head and looks back to the Asset. “That’s good,” he tells him, and the Asset blinks, trying to figure out where he is going with his claim.

Is it good that he hadn’t been given things, or— or—

In front of him, his handler breathes in and squares his shoulders, his hands still holding his as his chin raises. “Alright,” he starts, his eyes staring down into his. “Prepare for a change in protocol.”

The Asset nods, wide-eyed. “Confirmed,” he replies.

His handler breathes in, his eyes closing for a second before he looks at him again. “Effective immediately,” he starts. “The Asset is not to—” His lips press together, and he restarts. “The Asset is not required to express his gratitude for the things he receives.” His gaze remains steady. “No matter what he receives, and no matter who gives it to him. That previous protocol is now void.”

The Asset’s mouth drops open without his permission, and he stares, his mind spinning. What—? Why—?

His breath hitches. Does… does that mean that his handler will now take back his things? Why did he give them to him in the first place if he was just going to— A stab of panic fills him as he tries to come to terms with what he had been told. What…what should he do now? He doesn’t have a cell to stay in. Is he still allowed here? But— but he isn’t allowed to— What is he supposed to do now?

His eyes flick over his handler and down to the bedding under him, and then to his own clothes. What is he supposed to do with these things now? He can’t…just…be supposed to…stay…here. That’s…not, that’s not how it works.

His handler is watching him his eyes clouded and almost pained. “Confirm changes,” he says softly.

The Asset looks at him. “Confirmed,” he repeats hollowly, his mind still spinning.

His handler nods at him. “Good,” he says quietly, his hands squeezing his own again, yet again without pain. “Now, I need you to tell me something.” He looks down at him, a sober look in his eye. “Who decides what the Asset deserves to receive?”

The Asset can’t help his blink at the question, his confusion growing by the second. He doesn’t know why his handler is asking him this question. He hadn’t really thought about it much before, but the answer seems obvious. “His handler,” he replies.

His handler’s eyes close, before opening again. “Okay,” he says. “Then listen.” The Asset stares up at him and gets the sudden impression he is about to get another change in protocol, even without the exact wording.

His handler’s chin lifts authoritatively, and he looks down at him. “I have decided, the Asset deserves handler food,” he announces, and the Asset’s eyes go round. “He deserves everything in the Tower,” he continues. “He deserves everything given to him. He does not have to be grateful.”

The Asset sits in stunned silence and he can’t stop staring at his handler. He…doesn’t…have to be grateful. That— what? That—

He blinks and his lips part as a sudden realisation hits him. His handler hadn’t been expecting this. His handler had been surprised when he had tried to follow the previous protocol. His handler hadn’t been expecting it, and he’d— he’d changed it now, so that he doesn’t have to do that. He really really hadn’t been expecting the Asset to repay what he had been given so—

So everything he had given him, had been genuine.

He had decided already that the Asset deserved those things in this new base, and he hadn’t expected the Asset to repay the gifts.

This time it is his hands that are shaking, and his handler lets go of one of them to slowly reach forward and touch his shoulder, his hand warm and soft and not painful at all. “You’re safe here, Bucky,” he whispers, his eyes achingly genuine. “I’m so, so sorry for what happened to you, but you’re safe here, I promise.”

Tears press at the Asset’s eyes, but he swallows them down, his breath hitching just slightly as his handler gives him a sad smile. They sit like that for a moment, the Asset reveling in the warmth all around him as he comes to terms with everything his handler had said.

Eventually, Handler-Rogers sucks in a deep breath and swallows, blinking rapidly as he looks away. “It’s late,” he says softly. “We should go to bed.”

The Asset finds himself nodding, because he thinks he would agree to anything at this point, and his handler gives his hand one final squeeze before excusing himself away to brush his teeth. The Asset stares mutely after him, and he can’t help noticing how his hands feel strangely cold, now that his handler is gone. His eyes drop down to stare at them, before he looks back up at the bedding prepared for him.

He reaches out to touch the soft material and his breath catches again as he tries to comprehend the idea that this had been given to him for free, because his handler thinks he deserves it.

He shifts forward and finally gets off his knees, his legs tingling as blood rushes back into his toes. He hardly pays it any mind as he pulls back the blanket with silent awe and slips underneath. He stays quiet as he settles, still half-expecting something to jump out in fury at his daring.

But nothing does, and he sinks under the warmth, waiting in silence. His handler doesn’t come out of the bathroom for a while, and when he does immerge, he hasn’t changed his mind about anything, instead he simply wishes him a goodnight as he makes his way over to his own room—closing the door all the way this time.

(The Asset can’t help noticing that—for some reason—his eyes look a little red as he passes by.)

He lets out a breath as his handler’s door closes, burying his face in the soft warmth of his blanket. He feels shaky and exhausted from the stress of the day but— but a sudden overwhelming feeling buries itself in his chest and he presses his lips together. His eyes grow wet as he squeezes his blanket tighter in his arms.

The blanket his handler had given him, because his handler is good, and he had thought before that he had been good, but he hadn't even realised before just how good he was and—

You’re safe here, he had said…and for right now, the Asset believes him.   

Chapter Text

BARF sessions with Barnes can be…stressful. Tony does his best, and he’s worked with his therapist Judith on a few things to try to make it easier, but he will admit that officiating Barnes’ BARF sessions can be hard at times.

Judith had once suggested that he take a step back from them, but he had shaken his head. “I will if I need to,” he had reassured. “But I think these help me too. It… it is easier to see him as… a victim too, this way.”

He had felt awkward admitting that, but it had been true. Looking at Barnes, it is clear he is just as much a victim in this as his parents had been. Barnes had come to the Tower acting so far removed from himself that Tony’s own robots practically had more humanity. And then under that all, he had been hiding a barbaric arm that gave him chronic pain, and a digestive system that hadn't eaten anything solid for several decades.

Barnes’ BARF sessions had revealed even more horrors. Tony hadn't been expecting it to be smooth sailing, but even the brief glimpses he gets of Hydra’s treatment of Barnes displays the sheer lack of regard they’d had for his humanity.

And that can be hard to watch. He will admit that. It is hard to watch Barnes’ treatment, and cope with his own feelings about his parents’ death. But, he does think it helps too. It is easier this way to remember that Barnes’ had had practically no choice in the matter. Hydra had killed his parents. Barnes’ had just been the tool they had used to do it, and they had practically had to kill him in the process.

So, as stressful and painful as Barnes’ sessions can be sometimes, they do seem to be helping him, and Tony gains some benefits from them too. Besides simply understanding Barnes’ better, he also gets to know he is actively helping him overcome some of what Hydra did to him. He can’t undo it all, and he can’t change what happened to his parents, but he can help Barnes.

The more Tony learns, and the more he comes to know Barnes, the angrier he gets about the injustice he had suffered. With every BARF session, it becomes clear just how much Barnes had lost, and how little he himself even knows of how wrong it was.

Still, he isn’t prepared for what he sees today.

It starts off just like any other session. He and Beck sit at the control computers near the front of the room while Barnes stands in the middle, the BARF glasses on his face.

“Alright,” Tony leans back gingerly, careful not to jostle the healing scars on his chest. He still has several more weeks of recovery and he is already looking forward to his next scheduled dose of pain medication. After years of low level pain in his chest, the ache isn’t new, but it still isn’t pleasant.

“We’ll start with a word near the middle,” he announces, since picking and playing the session’s trigger word is one of his few tasks. To be honest, Barnes probably doesn’t need to be monitored by two people each session, but the tech had been Beck’s idea, so it had felt necessary to bring him into the development process, and Tony doubts anyone would have been comfortable letting Barnes get tested by a complete stranger.

And Barnes had apparently asked that Steve not come to the sessions, so here he is, checking over equipment and making sure nothing too terrible happens.

He brings up the audio files of the trigger words and scrolls through them until he gets to one they haven’t tried before. There is no precedence or guidance for this kind of therapy, so he doesn’t have much of a system, but trying out different words in the triggering sequence feels like a safe bet.

He clicks on the file, and Steve’s voice echoes through the speakers circling the room.

“Pech'.” Furnace.

Barnes closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. The computers on the desk begin to hum quietly and Tony keeps an eye on the readout screen, making sure that everything is running properly. A hazy image begins to flicker in the middle of the room and it solidifies quickly.

Tony’s gaze jumps up from the readings and Barnes’ eyes open to see the dim, empty entry of a house. The front door opens to emit four Hydra agents and Barnes himself, as the Winter Soldier. The lead agent stomps his feet and curses as he kicks slush from his boots. He pulls his black winter cap off and static electricity makes his fine, blond hair stick up. He and the other agents gripe about the cold as they haul in several bags of supplies and begin to peel off their winter layers.

“Safe houses are always the worst in the winter,” the lead agent complains, surprising Tony with his British accent. He had known Hydra had heads everywhere around the world, and it would make sense that Barnes was sent out with more than just Russian teams, but it is an easy fact to forget.

The blond agent kicks off his boots and nods sharply at Soldier-Barnes. “Go find the heater. I’m freezing my balls off here.”

The comment sparks jeers and smirks from the rest of the crew as they continue to drag in bags of supplies. Tony suppresses a sigh and prepares himself for another session full of callous Hydra agents.

Soldier-Barnes nods silently and slips past the other agents. He isn’t wearing the same heavy winter gear as the rest of them. Instead, he is dressed in a similar uniform as he'd been wearing when he had first come to the Tower—mask and all—with an added glove for his right hand.

The BARF tech follows him as he treks to a thermostat on the wall, and Tony surmises that this is probably not the first time he has used this safe house.

Once holo-Barnes switches on the heat, they watch as he and the agents begin to unpack the supplies and stake out claims to the rooms.

The safehouse is small. From what Tony can see the front door opens up to a cramped living room/dining room/kitchen setup, with a staircase leading upstairs. The living room has a pair of old couches and a TV that sets the scene sometime in the late 70s. The TV sits in front of a half-wall that acts as a divider from the dining room and kitchen, and Tony watches as Soldier-Barnes treks back and forth, stocking the bare shelves with shelf-stable supplies. The kitchenware looks to be from the 60s at least, and Tony notes that the tiny round dining table only has four chairs. One less chair then they need.

The room situation is the same. One of the agents has already claimed the pull out couch in the living room, and that leaves the rest of them to divide up the three rooms upstairs. Every room has two twin beds, each stripped bare of sheets.

To Tony’s surprise, two of the remaining agents share one of the rooms, while Soldier-Barnes and the blond agent—called Jackson by the others—get a room each to themselves. The rooms are pretty sparse, and while the other agents all have their own bags, holo-Barnes doesn’t seem to have anything.

Jackson has that covered. “Soldier,” he calls, catching holo-Barnes’ attention immediately. He reaches into his black duffle bag and tugs out a grey wool blanket, the kind that everyone somehow has in the back of their linen closet, but only pull out when things get desperate. “Here.”

It could be Tony’s imagination, but holo-Barnes takes a second longer than usual to respond. The moment breaks and he steps forward to accept the blanket, his movements smooth and controlled.

Jackson keeps a grip on the cover and meets his eyes pointedly. “Use this.”

The sentence should be innocuous, but there is an underlying tension to holo-Barnes’ nod. His face is difficult to read behind the mask, but his eyes are fixed on Jackson’s hairline. “Yes, sir.”

Jackson flashes him a satisfied grin and releases the blanket.

Holo-Barnes’ face is as unreadable as ever, but Tony spares a look to Barnes himself. He is startled by how white his face is. Compared to some of the things he has seen while using BARF tech, this hardly seems to compare. But Barnes watches the scene with a wariness that borders on dread.

Tony swallows uneasily, only half-paying attention as holo-Barnes lays the blanket at the end of his bed, still completely folded.

This is the hard part about watching BARF sessions; letting them happen. He knows, just from the nature of the sessions, that something upsetting is probably going to happen, but he tries not to interfere unless he absolutely has to. Barnes knows how to alter or end the sessions if he needs to—and he has yanked off the glasses before. Usually, if he is letting a scene play out, then he has a reason for it, even if Tony isn’t particularly keen on watching.

If something bad happens, Barnes can stop it, but he can't predict what might create the need. As uncomfortable as he feels, the scene continues without any clear red flags.

Holo-Barnes and the agents finish moving in the last of their supplies (including a healthy amount of weapons), and settle in. Tony gets the impression that the BARF tech rushes through some of it because soon they are watching as they gather around the kitchen table for their evening rations.

Just as he had noted earlier, they don’t have enough chairs for everyone, and he isn't surprised when Barnes is the one left standing. The other agents have a variety of dehydrated military rations, but Barnes doesn’t have anything like that.

It is the first time Tony has actually seen the stuff Hydra fed him. He watches mutely as Jackson fills a beige drink pouch with water and shakes it to incorporate whatever protein shake they’ve developed.

Rationally, he knows that liquids and cryofreeze probably mix better than solids, but the dehumanisation is hard to swallow.

Soldier-Barnes’ face remains blank as ever as he accepts the drink pouch and moves to stand by the wall facing the table. His mask is still on, and he doesn’t remove it. Instead, he simply watches silently as the agents rehydrate their rations, griping and teasing each other about the food quality as they eat.

Eventually Jackson notices Barnes’ inaction. “What’s the matter, Soldier?” he calls over a spoonful of lumpy brown hash, his mouth twisting up into a cruel smile. “Aren’tcha hungry?”

Holo-Barnes’ eyes dart to him immediately, the rest of him completely motionless. His voice comes out tonelessly. “Permission to remove mask, requested.”

Tony’s stomach curdles as he realises why holo-Barnes has yet to remove any part of his restricting uniform, while the other agents have already stretched out and relaxed.

Jackson’s smile grows wider and he gives holo-Barnes an indulgent nod. “Of course.” He throws a wink at the others. “All you had to do was ask.”

Tony glowers at Jackson as holo-Barnes removes his mask and stiffly walks over to hand it to him. Jackson takes it, but just as quickly snags holo-Barnes’ wrist, his hand striking forward like a snake. Holo-Barnes freezes instantly and the BARF image actually blures for a second, before refocusing.

Tony looks down at the computer readouts, but can't find anything wrong. Beside him, Beck scrolls back to better analyse the glitch, and Tony leaves him to it. He focuses back on Barnes and finds him as pale as before, his eyes riveted on Jackson, his hands pressing into his legs.

“I bet those rations get boring for you.”

Jackson’s voice pulls him back to the BARF scene. Holo-Barnes doesn’t move, and Jackson’s lips slant into a smile. “You did good on your mission. I bet you’d like something else.”

The statement shouldn’t feel so menacing, but tension lines every bone of holo-Barnes’ body, and he remains completely silent.

The other agents exchange grins and nudge each other as Jackson uses his free hand to sift through his rations and pull out a pale cereal bar. He presses it into holo-Barnes hand. “Eat this.”

Holo-Barnes’ eyes drop down to the ration, before meeting Jackson’s again. “Yes sir.”

A shiver crawls up Tony’s spine as Jackson tilts his head back and looks at holo-Barnes, his hand still wrapped around his wrist.

The image blurs again, and when it refocuses, holo-Barnes’ eyes are pinned somewhere past Jackson’s ear. He still has yet to move, and his voice remains emotionless and flat. “Thank you, sir.”

That apparently satisfies Jackson, and he lets go of his wrist. He lounges in his seat, slinging his arm around the back, his knees spreading. The scene flickers in and out of focus and Holo-Barnes doesn’t move, his wrist still hanging where Jackson had left it. Tony glances at Beck, and the image stabilises, leaving holo-Barnes standing with his gaze glued to the space behind his handler’s head.

Jackson tilts his chin back, his eyes hooded. “You can thank me later.” A cocky grin plays over his face and discomfort squirms in Tony's stomach as his comment sparks jeers from around the table.

Holo-Barnes’s neck flexes, but he otherwise shows no response as he steps back and begins to drink from his pouch and slowly and methodically nibble on his bar. His bite size is tiny, and Tony imagines that he needs to take it slow because he isn’t used to solids. He also guesses that this must not be the first time he’s been offered food, since he knows this.

Normally, Tony would see the offer as some kind of spark of humanity in the Hydra agents, but the way in which it was done, and the deadly silence with which Barnes watches the BARF feed leaves him feeling antsy.

His eyes drift back to Barnes as the agents chat and finish up their meal.

“I hate how he just stands there and stares,” one of them complains, and Tony thinks bitterly that that problem could be very easily solved if they just gave him a chair.

The other agents do nothing but chime in in agreement, before one of them nudges the head agent and smirks. “Well, it looks like Jackson’s got him in the palm of his hand.”

Jackson guffaws, and the scene blurs as both Barnes and holo-Barnes swallow uncomfortably. The only difference between them is holo-Barnes is focused on his dwindling bar as though his life depends on it, and Barnes doesn’t take his eyes off Jackson.

“Why do you get to have all the fun anyway?” a heavily freckled agent whines, his accent unmistakably northern. “The rest of us have to drag him around too.”

Jackson scoffs and takes a drink from his mess cup. “Well, maybe you can make head-handler Rider, and if you’re lucky I’ll teach you the protocols.”

“Is that how you learned ‘em?” a bulkier agent asks from around a mouthful of what looks like rehydrated minced spaghetti.

Jackson leans back and nods, sipping lazily from his cup. “Yeah,” he drawls, his eyes raking over holo-Barnes, before darting back to the group. “That’s how it works, passed down from handler to handler.” He throws his head back, draining his cup, before reaching into a pocket of his cargo pants and pulling out a metal flask—much to the delight of his fellow agents. “Dunno who started it,” he says as he pours a splash of alcohol into the mugs being thrust at him. “But it’s not exactly official, if you get my meaning.”

The remark is met with cheers and laughter all around. Tony doesn’t know what they are talking about, but his stomach sinks anyways. The way Jackson talks about it...he doesn't want to know.

His gaze skitters to Barnes, before dropping down to the emergency stop button on the console next to Beck. He doesn’t want to interfere with the session unless he has to, because this needs to be under Barnes control—that is the whole point. Barnes needs to be able to trust them to let him do this, but the look on Barnes’s face is not encouraging.

Barnes stands so still, Tony isn’t completely sure he is breathing. He doesn’t even blink as he stares at the projection. The collar of his shirt looks damp, and his hair is plastered to his neck.

“Barnes?” His voice comes out croaked, and he tries again. “Barnes, you good?”

Barnes’ gaze doesn’t waver from the scene, but he nods slowly, like a victim of hypnotization.

Tony isn’t exactly convinced, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His chest complains instantly and he winces and sucks in a short breath. The insistent pain distracts him from the BARF tech, and he resists the urge to reach up and press against his sternum, knowing that won’t help at all. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a practiced breath, working through it.

By the time he looks up again, the scene has changed, and holo-Barnes is back in the little room upstairs. Dusk has fallen, and the window blinds shut out most of the light, casting the room and its occupant in shadow.

Looking at him, Tony wouldn’t guess he is about to go to sleep. He is still in his tactical gear, boots and all, and he stands a foot or two from the bed, his gaze on the blanket.

The room is completely silent as they watch holo-Barnes stare at the foot of the bed. His face is unreadable—especially in the dim light—but Barnes watches himself with apprehension clear on his face.

That doesn’t bode well, and when holo-Barnes finally takes a stilted step towards the bed, Barnes shudders and takes a jerky step backwards. Tony watches him uneasily. It is clear that none of this is pleasant for Barnes, but he is hesitant to step in. Barnes hasn’t made any discernible indication that he wants to stop, and this isn't the first time he has let the BARF tech run through a traumatic memory.

Tony gets the impression that sometimes Barnes simply uses the tech to help him remember things he has forgotten, and in the course of their sessions, he has seen the beginning stages of terrible conditioning, memory wipes, and other such tortures. Compared to all that, practically nothing has happened today.

But that doesn’t remove the feeling of awful wrongness that weighs on him..

He throws a glance at Beck, wondering if he is similarly disturbed, but Beck doesn’t notice. He is leaning forward, a look of concentration on his face as he watches the computer readout, his eyes flicking up to Barnes every few seconds.

Tony gives an inaudible sigh, and leans back uncomfortably. Up ahead, holo-Barnes finally reaches for the blanket, and Tony watches as he spreads it out and makes the bed. He hadn’t been given any sheets or pillows, and Tony can see from the twin bed across the room that the mattress has plenty of suspicious stains.

Only the best for the Winter Soldier, he thinks glumly as holo-Barnes sits down on the bed, the blanket tucked in with military precision.

Holo-Barnes sits and stares at his boots for a while with an intensity that Tony doesn’t understand. He glances at Barnes, but still has no idea why his breath hitches when holo-Barnes makes his decision and begins to carefully remove his shoes.

He is eerily silent as he sets them aside and climbs under the blanket. The wool is thin enough that his entire profile is still visible, and he holds himself stiff and straight, his eyes focused on the dark ceiling.

He doesn’t sleep.

As far as Tony can tell, he just lays in bed, his eyes pinned to the ceiling as he breathes in a steady, deliberate rhythm.

His gaze flicks to Barnes. His eyes are wide and his face pale as he watches holo-Barnes, his body nearly as motionless as his holographic counterpart.

Anxiety prickles up and down Tony’s spine. He gets the sense of waiting for something horrible and foreboding, but he doesn’t know what it is.

It appears as though the BARF tech takes care of some of the waiting for them, because night falls quicker than usual, leaving holo-Barnes motionless and sleepless in the deepening dark.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed since he first laid down, but the choking silence is finally broken by a sound outside the door.

Tony’s eyes dart to the misty doorway. Holo-Barnes doesn't twitch, but his eyes close at the sound, his hands clenching on the blanket. A breath later and the tense, resigned expression is replaced with another blank mask, and Tony almost wonders if he had imagined the look.

The door opens, and Jackson steps in. He's changed clothes since the last scene. Whereas before, he was dressed in the typical Hydra black fatigues, he now wears a loose black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants.

The change of wardrobe only highlights the fact that holo-Barnes has nothing else, and Tony’s eyes are drawn to his confining gear as holo-Barnes pushes the blanket back and sits up. The move is premeditated, no motion wasted as he turns to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands rest on top of his knees, his eyes empty and aimed somewhere near Jackson’s chest.

Tony’s heart flutters restlessly, and his throat is dry as he swallows. As blank as holo-Barnes appears to be, tension fills the air, and his picture-perfect posture practically screams distress.

Tony’s eyes dart to Barnes, and his hands clench in his lap. Barnes is still as silent as ever, but his breathing is more visible. His hands are fisted in his pants now, his jaw clenched tight as he watches Jackson give his holo-self a once over.

A satisfied expression passes over Jackson’s face, and he leans nonchalantly against the door, folding his arms. “I see you used the blanket.”

The edges of the scene go fuzzy. Not completely blurry like it had been before, but just enough to make Tony feel dizzy. Holo-Barnes' gaze doesn’t shift as he nods, his head moving like a wooden marionette. “Yes sir.”

Jackson’s mouth twitches, and he pushes off the door, coming over to sit on the bed opposite to holo-Barnes. A smirk plays on his lips as he rests an elbow on his knee and leans forward.

“Lucky you,” he drawls, his eyes flicking over him. He licks his lips. “You know, I didn’t have to give you any of that. It’s not required of handlers to provide any more than is necessary.”

Tony's teeth grind and his eyes dart between the two figures, his palms growing sweaty. Beck takes his eyes off the readout, and they watch as holo-Barnes’ eyes meet Jackson’s, before dropping.

“Yes sir.” His voice almost catches in his throat, Tony can see his jaw move as he swallows. “Thank you sir.”

Jackson’s smile grows, his eyes glinting menacingly in the dim light. “I thought you would be grateful,” he says quietly. On the other side of the hologram, Barnes gives a full body shudder, his face grey.

Tony opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Jackson speaks up.

“Why don’t you show me?” He leans back and spreads his knees, and Tony sees for the first time that he is half hard.

Ice water washes through his veins, and he pales as the realisation hits. The entire session takes on a new light, and bile rises in his throat.

Use this.

Eat this.

You can thank me later.

Choking fury claws at his chest as he realises how premeditated this was. This whole time Jackson had been leading up to this. He’d been planning this the whole time. What kind of a—

His angry train of thought cuts off as the image blurs even further and holo-Barnes stands up.

He wonders suddenly if that is a reflection of holo-Barnes' own feelings. That must be what the blurring is, him protecting himself and literally fading out to try to shield himself from what is happening to him.

He doesn’t have much time to think on that because the image refocuses and holo-Barnes steps forward.

By the wall, Barnes stumbles back a step, his breath stuttering audibly. Tony’s eyes jump to him, and even from across the room, he can see how glassy his eyes are.

He’s doing exactly what his past self did, he realises with growing horror. Barnes is in no condition to end the session, and probably hasn’t been since it started.

A litany of curses runs through his head as he whips around to look at Beck, his heart seizing in his chest. “Shut it down!”

Beck turns and blinks at him, looking genuinely confused. “Are you sure?”

Tony stares at him, completely speechless. Beck draws back and waves a hand defensively. “I mean, isn’t the whole point letting him work it out by himself? While we see how the equipment reacts? You should see some of the readings we’ve been getting—”

Ahead, holo-Barnes sinks to his knees and Jackson reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants and Tony doesn’t have time to argue with Beck’s insane logic.

He lunges across the table and slams his hand on the shutdown button. He grunts at the strain on his chest, a furious burning nearly bringing tears to his eyes. The pain makes him short of breath, and he pants as he watches the horrifying image flicker out of sight.

They sit in shocked silence as Tony gets his breath back. Barnes doesn’t react to the loss of the hologram. His eyes remain glazed and distant, his chest moving in rapid, shallow breaths.

Tony sucks in his own breath, wincing as he sits up. His hands shake and his heart pounds and he doesn’t try to hide the anger in his voice when he turns to Beck.

“Get out.”

Beck’s mouth falls open, a mixture of shock, anger, and indignation flashing over his face. Tony glares right back, and he can see the moment Beck realises he is serious. His mouth snaps shut and he scowls, his jaw clenching as he pushes away from the table and all but stomps away.

It is clear he is not happy, but Tony will deal with that later. The instant Beck is out of the room, his attention zeroes in on Barnes. He still hasn’t moved. Tony is pretty sure this is the worst state he has seen him in since they had started the sessions. It is clear Barnes is distressed, but he is so out of it that Tony has no idea if there is anything he can do or say to help.

“JARVIS, get Steve,” he orders quietly, his heart pounding as he eyes Barnes' distant expression.

“Already done so, Sir,” JARVIS replies, just as quietly. “He had to get out of the shower, but will get here as quickly as possible.”

Tony closes his eyes in relief. He has no doubt that Steve will be here quickly. His eyes open and he focuses on Barnes. He just needs to hold things together until Steve gets here. He sucks in a breath and thinks back to all the grounding techniques his therapist has been having him practice.

Looks like he’s going to get double for his money with those.

He pulls in another steadying breath before trying to get Barnes’ attention. “Barnes?” he calls, wincing as his voice wavers with nerves. He swallows, grimacing. “Barnes, you with me?”

His query gets no response, and anxiety buzzes on his skin. Barnes continues to stand motionless, his eyes distant and haunted, lost somewhere in the worst memories possible. Without thinking, Tony stands up, trying to get Barnes’ attention—even just a little bit—so he doesn’t have to keep reliving what they just saw.

“Barnes—”

Barnes’ eyes jerk to him, a strangled noise catching in his throat. Tony freezes as Barnes flinches away, his breath exploding in the silent room. He stumbles back into the wall, his arms flying up as he cringes and falls to his knees.

Tony’s mouth hangs open, and Barnes’ voice comes out in a choked whisper. “No—please. Please, no.”

Tony drops like a stone back into his seat. His hands shake as he grips the armrests, and nausea clamps down on his stomach. He tries to say something, but a shudder cuts him off. Barnes’ pants fill the room, and he swallows painfully. He tries again, unable to take his eyes off Barnes’ cowering figure.

“No,” he manages. “No, it’s okay, you’re—” Barnes’ eyes are still unfocused, his face frozen in an expression of terror as he breathes raggedly. Tony’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair and he makes a split-second decision, desperate to make a connection.

“Bucky,” he says, his voice grating in his throat. “Bucky, you’re okay. You’re safe here.”

Miraculously, Bucky’s eyes dart to his. His shoulders shake as he drags in another breath, curling in on himself. He pants open-mouthed for a few moments, before swallowing, his hands clenching.

A desperate kind of determination enters his eyes, and he raises his chin, his jaw flexing.

“That protocol is void,” he rasps, and Tony freezes. “The— the Asset is not required to express his gratitude for—” he flinches, his gaze skittering to the side. “For the things he receives.” He sucks in a frantic breath and hunches in on himself. He shivers and shakes his head, his voice strained. “No matter… no matter what he receives, and no matter who gives it to him. That previous protocol is now void.”

The words tumble out of his mouth, as though he can’t get them out fast enough, and he meets Tony’s eyes again, his face pale. He jerks and gags, his breath catching uncomfortably as he tries to get his breathing under control. “He— he deserves everything in the Tower.” His gaze flicks past Tony’s shoulder, his hands trembling. “He deserves everything given to him. He does not have to be grateful.”

His next breath is more a sob than anything else, but his eyes are hard when he looks back at Tony. “That previous protocol is— That previous protocol is void.”

His gaze burns into him, his eyes red and wet as he dares him to contradict him. Tony has no such desire. “Yes,” he blurts, the word easing the lines around Bucky’s eyes.

Yes, he wants to scream, the word caught and tangled in his throat. Yes. Yes. A million times yes.

He doesn’t want to think about Bucky’s frantic efforts to make sure he knows about the change in protocol. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that that had been a protocol at all, nevermind the fact that Bucky had obviously been worried about it happening in the Tower.

His thoughts spin regardless, and he remembers.

He remembers now when he had offered to let Bucky run maintenance on his cars. He remembers his face when he had given him that custom glove to put over his metal hand. He hadn’t known what to think of the brief deer-in-the-headlights look he had received, nor the wary thanks, or the way Bucky’s eyes had followed him as he had left the room.

He does not have to be grateful.

A frisson of horror bolts through him as he thinks back to the last few months with Bucky in the Tower. It was obvious to anyone watching that Bucky was nervous, and cautious, and shied away from touch—but Tony hadn’t realised the full extent of the abuse behind that until now.

A noise at the door draws his stricken gaze, and a strained breath leaves him as Steve stumbles into the room. His hair is still damp and his clothes are rumpled and hastily thrown on, his shoulders heaving after having no doubt sprinted down the stairs from his room to here. He seeks Bucky out immediately, worry lines clear on his face.

“Bucky,” he gasps.

Bucky cringes, his voice taking on a new note of alarm. “The previous protocol is void,” he rambles, his eyes jumping to Steve and darting away over and over again. “The Asset does not have to— the Asset is not required to show his gratitude. That— that previous protocol is void.”

Steve winces in pain, and Tony knows immediately that he knows what is happening. This is not his first time dealing with this. In all likelihood, those are his words Bucky is repeating.

Tony can’t even imagine having to go through that, and he watches wordlessly as Steve’s expression clears into one of forced calmness, only his eyes reflecting the hurt he feels for his friend.

He crouches down by the doorway, his attention completely focused on Bucky across the room. “Yes,” he says quietly, his voice just on the edge of breaking. He fists his hands on his pant legs, his muscles tense. “Yes Bucky, you’re right. That previous protocol is void. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Tony swallows heavily and watches Bucky breathe, the sound filling the room. He coughs and wipes his mouth, his eyes darting from Steve to him. He presses his metal hand to the floor and meets Steve’s gaze, his voice stronger than before.

“No matter what he receives, and no matter who gives it to him.”

Tony feels faint, because he knows that Bucky is testing if the protocol is void for everyone. Obviously Steve had told him that, but he needs to make sure, needs a guarantee that he won’t have to some day pay for everything Tony has been doing for him.

He and Steve both nod at the same time, equally as emphatic. “Yes,” Steve repeats, holding Bucky’s gaze. “Yes. No matter what. You never have to do that again, Bucky. They shouldn’t’ve—” he breathes in, trying to steady his voice. “They shouldn’t have done that, Buck,” he continues softly. “It was wrong of them to— to make that protocol. They shouldn’t’ve done it.”

Bucky’s face crumples, and he buries his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing raggedly. His shaking grows, and Steve looks painfully sad for him, but Tony thinks Bucky had needed to hear those words. He’d needed to hear them for a long time.

oOo

They don’t do another BARF session for several weeks. Needless to say, the latest one had rattled them both, and they need some time to recoup and recover. He talks through the incident with his therapist and works on some ground rules for the next session that will hopefully help keep that from happening again, and make them both more comfortable.

He will discuss the boundaries with Bucky once he’s ready to try again, but in the meantime, he systematically removes Beck from the program. He doesn’t care what rambled excuses Beck tries to come up with to explain his behaviour. Anyone who is more willing to look at tech readings rather than end someone’s suffering is not welcome in his lab.

He informs Bucky of the change at lunch one day, and the brief flash of relief in his eyes is both gratifying and concerning.

He brings it up the next time he is alone with Steve. They are in his labs, like old times, and Tony keeps himself busy fine-tuning some upgrades for DUM-E, while Steve curls up on the couch and reads an ebook on his tablet.

“I don’t know if it’s really anything, but you might want to check on Bucky and Beck,” he says, keeping his eyes on the holographic screen in front of him. “Beck acted really…” his lips press together, “out of line, last session. And I just wonder if he’s ever acted like that around Bucky before.”

Steve’s head jerks up, his eyes wide as his face drains of blood. “He— Did he— Do you think he did something like what Hydra did? With that protocol?”

Tony’s fingers spasm and he rushes to reassure Steve. “No, no,” he says quickly, shuddering at the idea. “JARVIS would have told us if he did, and, the two of us didn’t even know about that...that protocol until that last session.”

Steve breathes out in relief, leaning back against the couch. “Right, of course.” His eyes close as he takes in a few more breaths, before looking at him again. “That session...I don’t know what you saw, but I imagine it was a shock.”

Tony shrugs uncomfortably and goes back to his coding. “I was able to shut it down, once I realised what was happening.” He doesn’t look up. “But yeah. Realising what that agent was planning...and how methodical it was…”

That is what really gets him. How intentional everything had been. Jackson had purposely made sure Bucky had things to be ‘grateful’ for, and he had ordered him to use them. And they hadn’t even been that great to begin with!

Steve lets out a slow breath and runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t know about it till we got to the Tower.”

Tony looks up at him, and Steve’s gaze is focused distantly across the room. “On the first night...I thought I was finding a balance between treating him like a person and giving him orders like he needed. All I did was give him food, and somewhere to sleep, and something to wear but—”

He chokes off, and Tony’s hands curl into fists, no longer able to type. If Jackson had been able to lord over Bucky with a single blanket and a cereal bar, he doesn’t want to imagine what Bucky must have thought that first night.

Steve shakes his head, breathing in to release the tension in his shoulders. “I asked him if any agents from the Vault had used that protocol with him.” His eyes cut to him, his gaze sharp and his voice steady. “He said no.” Tony’s shoulders drop in relief, and Steve rubs his mouth with one hand. “I don’t think he was capable of lying to me at the time, so I believe him. Which is lucky for them.”

Tony nearly snorts. Yeah, Hydra is already on his ‘Destroy with Great Prejudice’ list, but he imagines the agents whom Steve had worked and fought with would be in for a nasty surprise if it came out they had assaulted Bucky like this in the past.

He hums thoughtfully as he thinks over what he had seen in the last BARF session. “The agent said something about the protocol not being ‘official’,” he tells Steve, tapping on different lines of code and ignoring the trembling in his hands as he talks. “It sounded like someone started it, and passed it down by word of mouth to different handlers. If Bucky’s transfer to America happened abruptly because of the fall of the Soviet Union…”

“Then it’s possible the makeshift protocol was never passed on,” Steve finishes, and Tony nods.

“‘Course, Bucky wouldn’t know that,” he says, biting his lip. “So he wouldn’t know he was safe, and he had no guarantee someone wouldn’t make up their own protocol or something but…”

“But at least that didn’t happen,” Steve breathes, running a hand through his hair. “It wouldn’t have been twenty years free of it from his point of view, but he at least didn’t have to suffer through that for however many missions they had him out for.”

“And at least he’s safe now,” Tony concludes. Steve’s eyes meet his, and he works his tongue around in his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

The next time he and Bucky try to use the BARF tech, Beck isn’t there, and Tony makes sure Bucky knows the changes he has put in place.

“JARVIS will be monitoring your vitals,” he says, showing him the new readout on the computer screen. “If they become concerning, then we’ll check in with you. If you don’t respond, or your vitals get worse, then JARVIS will automatically shut everything down.”

He glances up at Bucky and swallows. “We can bring it back up again if you choose, but we’re going to do our best not to have a session as bad as last time.”

Bucky’s eyes meet his, his long hair framing his face as he takes in his words. He shifts minutely, his eyes dropping as he reaches for the BARF glasses. He licks his lips. “Thank you,” he says, barely louder than a whisper.

His eyes come up to meet his, and the fear from before is absent. Tony knows exactly how much those two words mean to him right now, and he has to blink past a growing warmth in his eyes as he nods, his throat swollen.

“You’re welcome,” he manages, and Bucky’s mouth twitches up ever so briefly.